“There he is,” the woman says, stepping into the space next to me. I shift to the side as Hunter envelopes the woman—clearly his mom—in his arms and kisses the top of her head.
“You look good in blue,” his dad says, taking Hunter’s hand for a shake before the two of them pull each other in for one of those back-slapping man-hugs.
“If they wanted me to wear hot pink and neon green to pitch in the big leagues, I would,” Hunter says.
His dad laughs, and the sound it makes is eerily similar to his son. My shoulders hike up. I think I may be a bit freaked out.
“Mom. Dad. This is Renleigh. Ren, these are my parents, Allison and Chandler.”
I blink my gaze from Hunter to his parents and laugh through my freaked-out grin.
“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you both,” I lie. I mean, it’s lovely to meet them. And I wouldn’t have minded. But a warning would have been nice. Plus, meeting parents is an extra level of intimacy. I mean, sure, he met mine, but still.
“Renleigh, it is so nice to meet you. Hunter tells me you grew up here in Sweetwater?” This sweet woman is softspoken and warm, and her son’s blue eyes are clearly the carbon copy All I can do is stare at her with wide eyes and my dumbfounded expression.
“I did. Yes.” My gaze flits to Hunter, but all he does is offer a tightlipped grin.
He told his parents about me. Facts about me.
“Hey, I gotta warm up, but Renleigh can show you your seats.” Hunter’s gave shifts to me. “They’re next to you and Lindsey.”
Hunter backs up a few steps, and once he’s out of view from his parents, he mouths, “I’m sorry.”
I’m gleaning that their attendance was a bit of a surprise for him, too. I guide his parents to our seats, then introduce themto my sister, whose expression is a lot like what I imagine mine was. The four of us settle in, his mom next to me, and his father next to her. I’d love to trade places with Lindsey right now. She’s better at small talk. Also, she’s not the bimbo fucking this woman’s son.
“You know, he told us he was going to be a starting pitcher when he was five years old. He refused to play by the rules in tee ball,” his mom says, the proud smile of a mother denting her cheeks.
“He insisted on pitching to the other kids. They kicked him out of the league,” his father adds with a chuckle.
My gaze drifts to the field where Hunter is starting his long toss with Roddy, and I smile.
“I could see that,” I say.
The four of us watch him stretch his throw across the outfield, and his dad says his wife was better at catch than he was. She makes a remark about being around more, and I sense a heaviness in the air when she does, but it dissipates quickly when his dad leans over, kisses her cheek, and whispers, “I love you.” It’s sad and sweet at the same time.
“Hunter says he met you because of a bet,” his mom finally says.
“Oh, well, sort of. He lost that bet, but it did break the ice,” I say.
“She took him for a hundred bucks,” my sister adds.
“Linds!” I nudge her, not-so-gently, with my leg.
“What? You did,” she says.
Hunter’s parents laugh, and his dad holds out a fist for me to pound. I do and he winks, adding, “You should have held out for two hundred.”
By the time the game starts, his parents have filled in most of the gaps from his childhood, all the pleasant things parents like to brag about their child, and I mesh the fondness heseems to have for them with the stories they tell. It’s a beautiful adolescence, and they seem like a beautiful family, despite the challenges Hunter confided in me. They are nothing like the messy relationship my parents have, and as warming as it is, it also sits heavy in the pit of my chest.
I’m jealous.
“You’ve seen him throw this spring. What do you think? Does he really have it?” Chandler’s hands are clasped across his belly, and he’s wringing his hands. I think maybe he’s nervous, even after all these years.
I nod and shift my attention to the tall, stoic man on the mound. Hunter pulls his hat off to run his arm over his forehead, then pushes it in place, the curled ends of his hair poking out the back and sides. He feels the ball in his glove and nods to Roddy before zipping his last warm-up pitch into the glove.
“Yeah. He’s got it,” I say.
He’s got me, too. And that’s definitely not part of the plan.
